


Wax Cybertronia

by Decepticonsensual



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when two of the vainest mechs in any universe collide?  I'll give you a hint:  it's probably going to be hell on the paintwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wax Cybertronia

There’s no denying that Sunstreaker has a weapons-grade withering glare when he wants to deploy it.  He’s deploying it now.

“If you breathe a word of this to _anyone,_ ’Con, I swear, I will peel that plating off you strip by strip,” he snarls.

Unfortunately for Sunstreaker, Knock Out isn’t in a mood to be intimidated.  “Oh, like I’d be inclined to tell.  This is just as humiliating for me, you know.”  He extends a hand, clawtips wiggling.  “Now give it here.”

With a last wary glance, Sunstreaker holds out the tin of polish.

They ran into each other on the road – almost literally, thanks to a malfunctioning sensor on Sunstreaker’s side and a distracted mood on Knock Out’s – and had a brief standoff, weapons out, while they each assessed the situation.  Enemy soldier, crucial but not of especially high rank.  Apparently not on a mission.  Capable of putting up a fight, such that neither of them would likely be able to scrap the other.  Battle:  unnecessary and inadvisable.

Of course, Sunstreaker might have plunged in anyway for the sheer hell of it, except that each of them had also noticed one fact that had nothing to do with battle protocols:  his opponent was a very pretty, very high-performance sports car.

There was only one way this was going to end.

The race took them screaming across the desert flats and up into the mountains, which was where Knock Out, who was in the lead, came flying around a corner and straight into the aftermath of a rockslide.  Sunstreaker slammed into him before he could brake, and they both went tumbling halfway down the mountainside, coming to rest in a thicket of thorn bushes that just added insult to paint-wrecking injury.

Neither of them are about to return to base in such a disgraceful condition, so Sunstreaker sighs in resignation when Knock Out makes a little twirling gesture.  He turns around and scoots in close to give the Decepticon access to his backplates, which took the brunt of the damage.  A cloth, damp with cleaning solution, begins to move across his plating.

“Careful you don’t give me more scratches with those Pit-damned claws of yours.”

“ _Please_.  I am a surgeon, dear; I know what I’m doing.  I’m more worried about letting a clumsy Autobot gearstick like you near _my_ finish.”

Sunstreaker grimaces, but he can’t help but arch his back as the very claws he complained about start digging in deliciously, pulling grit out of delicate wiring.  “I’ll have you know that I maintain _this_ – “ he waves a hand down his body – “all by myself.  You only wish you were this good with a buffer.”

“Hmmm.”  The claws vanish, then return, this time coated in wax.  True to his word, Knock Out is careful as he glides over Sunstreaker’s back and shoulders.  “I suppose one can’t deny that you’re quite a beautifully groomed specimen,” he remarks, then hastily adds, “For an Autobot.  Turn around.”

Sunstreaker does, stretching his long legs out in front of him to allow Knock Out to get to work on the scuffed shins.  “You’re not so bad yourself,” he says grudgingly, studying the ground beneath his splayed fingers as if he might find a formula for endless synthetic energon written there.

Well, he _might_.  You don’t know.

Knock Out notices Sunstreaker’s averted gaze and the flush creeping over the Lamborghini’s cheeks, and he chuckles softly, sliding his hand further up Sunstreaker’s thigh.  “Oh?  So, are you just going to sit there, or are you going to do something about it?”

Sunstreaker’s head snaps around to glare at him.  “The frag do you mean?”

“Come now.  You’re irritatingly attractive, and I know damned well that _I’m_ irresistible.  We’re unlikely to get another chance as good as this.  And since we need to clean ourselves up _anyway…_ ”  He trails off, those unsettlingly beautiful red optics slowly taking in every inch of Sunstreaker’s frame as Knock Out’s claws sneak towards his panel.

Sunstreaker watches him through hooded optics for a long moment.  Then, with a growl, he wraps his hands around Knock Out’s hips.

Knock Out’s hands are everywhere, fingers running worshipfully over Sunstreaker’s finish.  He reaches up to delicately, deliberately nick the edges of an audial fin with his claws; the sting makes Sunstreaker snarl, and he digs his fingertips into the wires at the tops of Knock Out’s thighs in retaliation.  Knock Out whimpers and squirms against him.  Their fans switch on almost simultaneously, and suddenly it’s all happening too fast for thought, sleek plating grinding so hard that it leaves paint trails.  Sunstreaker is sucking at Knock Out’s headlight as Knock Out rides him, rubbing their scorching panels together.

When their panels open, there’s a brief tussle over who’s going to top, but they’re both running too hot to waste time arguing.  The fight dissolves into a sticky, gleeful tangle, bodies rocking, spikes and polish-slicked hands slipping over each other frantically, until they both crash into overload as heedlessly as they tumbled off that cliff.

They sprawl strutlessly in the dirt, vents heaving, splatters of transfluid streaking the dust on their abdominal plating.  Eventually, Sunstreaker props himself up and manages to retrieve the abandoned tin of wax.  “C’mon.  You first, this time.”

It takes another two suddenly, but delightfully, aborted attempts at polishing each other before they’re sated and worn out enough to focus on the task, but by the time the sun sets, they’re back in relatively acceptable condition.  They stand and examine each other in the dying light, secretly admiring the way all the fiery highlights of their red and yellow armour flare to life in the orange of the sunset.

“You know,” Sunstreaker says offhandedly as he transforms, “we never finished that race.”

Knock Out considers this.  “Next week?”

“You bring the polish.”


End file.
